


Ready & Reactive

by BlueFingers (POPP_Writing_Group)



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Humor, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Drunken Flirting, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Misunderstandings, Other, Rodimus being Rodimus, bro flirting, overly romantic language, sword sharpening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 02:31:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16466993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/POPP_Writing_Group/pseuds/BlueFingers
Summary: Drift and Ratchet have an Evening In, until a certain something activates Drift's Ninja Slicey Mode





	Ready & Reactive

**Author's Note:**

> I'm thatswhyhesprime on tumblr if you wanna request something but I write slow haha

“How was your day?” Drift says, from the couch in their hab.  It’s a habit now, to say that without expecting an answer.  He grins as Ratchet mutters something to the extent of “fragging terrible” and goes off to the washracks without another word.

Another day, Drift would join him.  But he’s been working on a sword polishing routine for hours– Rodimus had given him the day off, just for that.  He’s wanted to try it out on his short swords for  _ages._

Strangely enough, the polishing wasn’t something he’d learned from Wing, or the Knights.  He’d found the instructions at the organic section of the Hedonia planet.  That had been an interesting few minutes, the organic traders barely reaching his mid-calves scowling up at him as he tried to buy their paper scrolls.

He begins to hum quietly, rubbing the first oiled polishing cloth slowly along the edge of one of his blades.  He knows Ratchet can hear him, and he begins turning his hums into a sort of tune, raising the tone of his voice so as to carry over better into the washracks.

By the time he’s finished his fourth tune, his short swords are shining with a dull glint, ready and reactive to the sharpening stone he’d be bringing in soon.  

The running of solvent has been going for longer than any cleaning cycle should be, and he knows Ratchet must be letting the hot water rinse away his stress.  Good.  Usually, the old grump spends all of three minutes in there, and comes back out to get right back to work.

As if Ratchet could hear his thoughts, the running solvent stops.  Drift glances up as Ratchet comes out of the washracks, rubbing at the water running down his chassis and legs with the organic towel Drift had gotten.  He flushes and looks away as Drift grins again, and slings the towel around his neck.

“Like your singing,” he mumbles, sitting down next to Drift.

“Wasn’t  _singing.”_

“Oh, I give you a compliment for _once–”_

“Thanks, Ratch.”  Drift leans over and pressed his lips gently to the side of Ratchet’s helm, chuckling softly as Ratchet huffs.  “I like my singing too.”

Ratchet sighs, leaning back against the couch.  “It’s not bad.”

“Not bad?”  Drift set his swords down gently– it was Ratchet Time now– and turned to face the medic, sliding his hand around the back of the other mech’s helm.  “Just not bad?”

Ratchet shutters his optics, smiled slightly.  “Pretty good.”

Drift leans forward more, pressing his helm against Ratchet’s.  “Pretty good?”

Ratchet shivers, his hand comes up to match Drift’s grip on his helm– _finally–_   and leans in, his mouth brushing against Drift’s–

And Drift freezes.  His finials slant back, his body tenses.  He can _hear_ something.  Another voice.

“What’s wrong?” Ratchet asks, pulling away.

He knows Drift’s danger signs, he thinks Drift’s been triggered by something he’s done. He’s waiting for Drift to tell him what’s okay to do.  Drift appreciates it, but he’s not having flashbacks– he’s worried someone’s hiding in the room, ready to attack.

“Shh,” he says, carefully taking his hand down from Ratchet’s head and grasping one of the short swords.  Ratchet watches, his own body beginning to tense up, his aura discoloring with stress again, and Drift swears silently that he’ll make whoever’s in here  _pay_  for undoing all his hard work.

He closes his eyes, and turns up his audial sensors, and listens.

“Quit talking! They’ll hear us!” comes a voice, quiet and hissed.

“But–” says another, not as quiet.  The voice he’d heard before.

“SHUSH,” the first voice repeats.

Drift opens his eyes, grins predatorily.  

Got you.

He leaps over the couch, kicks over the table he’d heard the voices from, and– yes, there are mecha there, they thought they could hide.  Drift shoves his sword at the neck of the closest mech he sees.  There’s a terrified yelp, and the sound of Ratchet shouting his name, but Drift is too busy fighting off the urge to slit the lines of the intruders here and now to pay much attention.

 _“Drift,”_ Ratchet growls, and his hand is on Drift’s shoulder.  “It’s Tailgate and Rodimus.”

Drift blinks the attack-haze from his eyes, and looks down to investigate these claims.  Oh.  

“It’s not my  _fault!”_ Tailgate wails, grasping at Rodimus’ shoulders from behind.  Rodimus tilts his head and grins sheepishly at Drift, his hands grabbing a bit at Drift’s own as he tries his best not to let the edge of the blade cut his neck.

“Oh, God, I’m sorry,” Drift gasps, and backs away, letting the sword clatter to the floor.  “I’m sorry, Roddy–”

“What were you  _doing in here?!”_  Ratchet yells.

Rodimus clambers to his feet, and Tailgate launches into a rushed, panicky tale about Brainstorm’s new teleporting finger and how he’d been testing it at the bar when they got in the way and decided that they had to hide because Drift and Ratchet were having private time–

“That’s enough,” Ratchet says, rubbing his forehelm.  “Go ahead and go, Tailgate.”

Tailgate does, running hurriedly from the room.  _Because he’s scared_ , Drift thinks, and groans.  Rodimus will almost certainly hate him now, too, and Drift doesn’t think he can handle that.

But Rodimus is… laughing?

“Ooh, man,” he says, and rubs the place his neck where Drift’s sword had been pressed.  “That was nobody’s fault but mine, Drift.”

“Damn right,” Ratchet grumbles, picking the table up again.

“I shouldn’t have–” Drift starts.  Rodimus silences him with a finger to his lips, the other hand perched jauntily on the captain’s hip.  

“Drift.  Baby.  You were gettin’ frisky with our beloved CMO when I decided to insert myself and Tailgate into the room and interrupt your gorgeous self.  I deserved to be on the receiving end of your terrifying protective slicey-dicey.  Mmkay?”

“I–” Drift stammers.

“Okay,” Roddy purrs, and takes the finger off Drift’s mouth.  “Go back to your fun times, baby.  I’m gonna be watchin’ through the cameraaaas…”

“If you do, my medic oaths are going out the airlock,” Ratchet calls from the other side of the room.

“I  _won’t_ be watching through the cameras,” Rodimus amends, walking backwards out of the door.  “Keep bein’ you, sweetie!”  He fingerguns, flashes his trademark 100-watt smile, and is gone.

“He is definitely drunk,” Ratchet says, sighing, and wraps an arm around Drift.  “He’s right, though– that was his fault, and you don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

Drift chuckles, the tension leaving his shoulders as Ratchet rubs it away.  “Yeah, except breaking up our nice moment.”

“Heh.”  Ratchet turns him around, sways with him.  “We can still have a nice moment.”

“Can we?”  They’re doing it again, the nonsense back-and-forth.  But it’s nice.  And historically, it’s led to other nice things.

“We can,” Ratchet says, and they sway together, helms pressed, living in the moment.


End file.
